


oh i was meant to love you (knew i loved you at first sight)

by ArliaDevi



Series: forty seasons [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Fighting, First Time, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Roach is fed up, baby's first long term relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArliaDevi/pseuds/ArliaDevi
Summary: On the eve of their break for winter, Jaskier leans across the soft mattress and kisses Geralt delicately. It’s gentle and polite, barely a brushing of warm lips against each other, certainly not enough to get a taste. Jaskier pulls back, hovers, waits.Geralt opens his warm amber eyes and says, ‘You’re drunk. This isn’t the barmaid’s room.’Or,Jaskier decides to risk it for the biscuit.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: forty seasons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672033
Comments: 50
Kudos: 2033
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	oh i was meant to love you (knew i loved you at first sight)

It starts with the plague.

In the summer, disease sweeps its way across the continent. He travels north with Geralt, unsure if the Witcher has pressing business north of Novigrad, or if they’re trying to outrun the slow creep of the virus. Geralt doesn’t say either way, but Jaskier follows him. It’s safer to go north than be in the city right now.

He doesn’t catch the plague. It, as most plagues do, captures the weak and the elderly and the young. Innocent victims. Bushland is cleared to make cemeteries outside of the town walls and the scent of smoke and burning is heavy in the air. If Geralt notices it, he doesn’t say anything.

The plague just means there are more bodies to feast on, more monsters to hunt and kill.

They work hard all summer long.

It starts with him tagging along.

Geralt tells him to leave. He doesn’t. If Geralt wanted to, he could leave the bard. Leave him stranded in the middle of a clearing, miles from any township. He could sneak out of their Inn and continue on the Path by himself, as he’s always been.

But he doesn’t.

Even when they part ways, for weeks, for months, even a year at one point, they always seem to find their way back to each other.

Every time, Jaskier finds it harder to leave.

It starts with a bottle of Temerian vodka and an Inn.

It’s the middle of autumn. Their coin purses are heavy with a busy summer and bodies weary from the work. The winter is edging closer and with it, the Witcher decides to go back to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier will spend time in Oxenfurt teaching and singing and writing, as he usually does, and they’ll meet again in the spring or summer.

Tonight, they’re in an Inn, lying side-by-side on clean sheets, washed and fed and warm.

Perhaps it’s the knowledge that they’ll split paths tomorrow and so there will be no real ramifications. Geralt will not stay mad at him all winter, and Jaskier’s sure he can find somewhere in this warm inn to sleep a single night should Geralt kick him out –

Perhaps, then, it’s the feeling of mortality, of fragility, that had rattled his bones as the plague swept across the land. A reminder that this life is short and cruel and sudden –

Perhaps it’s the Temerian spirits that warm his blood and make his head spin, but really, he’s had two cups at best, it’s barely anything than a heart-starter –

Perhaps it’s the understanding that he finally knows what pleases him as the Witcher lies next to him in clean linens on a soft mattress, bathed in the warm firelight. While his eyes are closed, Jaskier knows he’s not asleep –

Perhaps it’s a combination of all those things, and other things he can’t quite name, that make him, on the eve of their break for winter, lean across the soft mattress and press his mouth against Geralt’s in a delicate kiss.

It’s gentle and polite, barely a brushing of warm lips against each other, certainly not enough to get a taste. Jaskier pulls back, hovers, waits.

Geralt opens his warm amber eyes and says, ‘You’re drunk. This isn’t the barmaid’s room.’

And now–

Geralt wouldn’t take this any other way, Jaskier knows. He could spout his love in a hundred different forms, in eight different languages, and Geralt will not believe him, will dismiss him. Geralt responds to actions.

To choices.

So Jaskier will lay this choice out to him, he’ll make it easy because so much about their lives are hard and unforgiving, but this has a chance, Jaskier thinks, to be something wonderful.

‘I know, Geralt.’ He says his name for good measure.

Geralt just watches him.

So, Jaskier kisses him again. He kisses him again to remove any doubt that he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. That he’s not under some kind of spell or some kind of curse or some kind of drink.

Geralt doesn’t kiss him back, but he doesn’t push him off, either.

When Jaskier breaks the kiss again, Geralt’s eyes are hard. ‘Jaskier.’ His tone is a warning. A challenge.

Jaskier rises to it. ‘Geralt.’

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

His honeyed gaze is so intense, Jaskier drops his own to the sheets as nervousness blooms in the pit of his stomach.

‘You recall what I said on the mountain? About trying to decide what pleases me?’ He dares to place a hand on Geralt’s chest, just centre of his too-slow heart, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin linen of his shirt. Geralt’s gaze flickers down at the sudden, intimate touch but doesn’t shove Jaskier off. ‘Quite recently I discovered that life is short and mostly miserable, Geralt.’

Geralt shifts slightly, rolling towards Jaskier. For a moment, Jaskier thinks he is being kicked out of bed, that he has walked too close to the edge of the volcano that is their relationship and will now be burnt forever because of his actions. Still, he persists.

‘If I died tomorrow, I know I’d regret not taking this chance with you,’ he presses on. Geralt doesn’t say anything. ‘I’m not sure what this _is_ , what this could be but I-,’

‘You won’t die tomorrow.’

Jaskier bristles. ‘You don’t _know_ that. I could be captured by a gang of thieves, succumb to some exotic illness, be trampled by Roach as you kick me to the curb because I’ve just gone and kissed you, and,’ he swallows, eyes darting down to Geralt’s slightly parted lips, ‘if I’m being completely honest, quite tempted to do so again.’

He presses forward again, his lips ghosting across Geralt’s. Tentatively, Geralt’s mouth opens and Jaskier takes the invitation to deepen the kiss. Slowly, their mouths grow hot and eager, and Geralt’s hand comes to settle at the base of Jaskier’s skull. Fingers outstretch before tangling in his hair, and Jaskier can’t suppress the whine that escapes from the back of his throat.

The sound must embolden Geralt, must wake something deep inside him because suddenly Jaskier is overwhelmed. Geralt grabs at him, pulls him close, _swallows him_. His mouth opens, his tongue slides against his and finally, finally, he’s getting what he wants. What he _desires_. Geralt smells like lavender and rosemary, remnants from the bath earlier, and the fatty oil he occasionally rubs into his scars.

Quickly, Geralt pulls his shirt over his head as Jaskier slips out of his chemise. Geralt’s hands and mouth and teeth are back on him in an instant, running down the length of his chest, ghosting down the column of his throat. He nips on Jaskier’s collarbone before Jaskier, with no amount of gentleness, tugs Geralt’s mouth back up to hiss and kisses him fiercely.

Jaskier’s hands smooth down the scarred skin of Geralt’s back until he settles on his hips. Fingers find the loose lacings of his pants.

‘Is this still okay?’ he asks against the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt grunts and arches up into his hand. Jaskier almost laughs; as communicative as ever.

Nimble fingers untie the laces on Geralt’s pants. ‘Oh, darling, you are exquisite.’

They peel out of their clothes slowly, the heat of the moment slowly waning as Jaskier takes the time needed to worship, to appreciate Geralt’s body. Geralt’s hands are not idle; they encircle Jaskier’s waist, thumbs almost meeting in the middle. Slowly, they drag down, eliciting goosebumps along his flesh, before hooking into his smallclothes and pulling them down his legs; which are long and pale and thin when resting beside Geralt’s. Briefly, Jaskier considers, how wonderful it would be to be crushed by those thighs, how that’s the way he’d want to leave this world if he could choose.

‘Get my oil,’ says Geralt.

Jaskier turns and fumbles by the bedside for the small pot of oil, discarded from where Geralt’s been working it into a particularly nasty forming scar on his arm. It’s half-empty and smells like roses, like spring and early sunny mornings. Geralt dips his fingers in and Jaskier parts his legs, and then this thing between them becomes _real_ and Jaskier feels so full, so overwhelmed as Geralt moves inside him.

‘That’s it,’ he whimpers. ‘Oh sweet, you feel so good. So perfect.’

A brush of his fingers somewhere deep drags a moan out of Jaskier’s mouth. Geralt’s amber eyes flick up, meet his own, and then Geralt kisses him, deep and slow and like they have all the time in the world, like tomorrow won’t come to tear them apart for a season or longer. Like this is all that it’s ever been.

‘Geralt, you’re so beautiful,’ Jaskier whispers as his lips press down Geralt’s neck. He finds the soft parts, the fuzzy parts where Geralt has missed with his razor, feels the thrum of his pulse, quickened slightly, under the tip of his tongue. ‘Just like that, yes.’

Geralt opens his mouth to say something, but then Jaskier takes Geralt by hand; hot and hard and _wonderful_. His head tips back a little, and Jaskier manages a few strokes before Geralt passes him the tub of oil. His other fingers are still buried in the bard, unmoving and comfortable.

‘Touch me,’ Geralt demands. His voice is rough and desperate. Frankly, the thought that Jaskier’s made him sound like that alone may just bring him to completion.

Warming the oil between his fingers, Jaskier strokes Geralt until he’s panting against his mouth, until the hands at Jaskier’s waist grab just a little too hard, until his stomach quivers under Jaskier’s hand. Pulling his hand away, he bites down on Geralt’s bottom lip, revels in the hitch in the back of his throat, and whispers, ‘take me, Geralt.’

Geralt hesitates. Jaskier kisses it away.

‘It’s all right,’ he whispers, encourages, _assures_. ‘Darling, do you still want-,’

Jaskier knows Geralt won’t tell him, not in words because he’s _always been like this_. And while he’s still getting to know this body like a lover, he’s known this body as a friend for a decade. After so long he can decipher the tells, read the minute expressions and twitches. Jaskier feels Geralt’s hesitation in his bones so he pulls back slightly, edges away, gives him space.

‘We can stop,’ he whispers. _We don’t have to continue, I want only what you’re willing to give, nothing else, nothing more than that-_

Geralt’s mouth claims his again, tells him what he needs in no uncertain terms, before pressing inside. Jaskier thinks he loses his mind, just for a moment, as pleasure and pain intermingle and he feels so wonderfully full, so complete, so consumed by everything Geralt is.

And why haven’t they been doing this from the beginning?

Why hadn’t he confessed his feeling sooner?

Arms wrap around his hips, his back, and he’s cradled against Geralt’s body as they rock slowly. Their lips rarely ever part from one another, breath mingling, eyes alight with flame and desire.

‘Geralt, fuck, you’re so good.’ He runs his fingers through his hair, tugs a little, watches as Geralt’s eyes darken with desire. ‘So good to me.’

Sweet words fail him as the pleasure builds, and then he is grasping at Geralt’s shoulders and gasping against the stubble underneath his neck. Geralt’s nose presses against his temple, breath hot and fast against his cheek and then a hand wraps around Jaskier’s cock and he shudders violently, clawing at his back, a litany of filth streaming from his mouth.

Geralt finishes soon after, his thrusting irregular and shallow. Jaskier shivers at the overstimulation, lax in his lover's arms.

‘That was…,’ he swallows, mouth dry. ‘Entirely incredible, really, bravo.’

The lust that glazes Geralt’s eyes fades away as recognition slowly seeps back in and Jaskier watches as he takes in the situation: they are naked and sticky in each other’s arms.

Suddenly feeling exposed, Jaskier offers him a shy smile.

‘Geralt, I-,’ he tries, but for once, he cannot find the words. His mouth is too dry and his heart is too full.

An expression he can’t decipher crosses Geralt’s face as he pulls away and rolls onto his back.

Jaskier wants to follow, wants to press his body against Geralt’s side and stay there for as long as he is allowed, but something has changed between them, something has shifted, and he’s not sure what to say.

Perhaps this has been a mistake.

He’d been prepared for the mistake.

He’d been ready.

But the blow hurts anyway.

Geralt’s amber eyes slide closed and he lets out a deep, laborious sigh. Like the Witcher beside him, the night is quiet and still and all Jaskier can hear is the thrumming of his own heart.

He doesn’t sleep. Not really. In the morning, he feels Geralt shift on the bed and get up. Through bleary eyes, Jaskier watches as he dresses and prepares for the morning. Grey light filters through the window shutters and the thinks he can smell the beginnings of rain. The roads will be wet and muddy, and perhaps Geralt won’t risk Roach throwing a shoe and stay another night. And then another, and another.

Suddenly, Geralt picks up his pack and Jaskier realises he’s leaving.

‘You’re just going to go?’ Jaskier says, sitting up in bed. It’s been a long time since Geralt just tried to _sneak out_. ‘You’re not even going to let me buy you breakfast first?’

Geralt hesitates by the door.

‘You weren’t going to wake me to say goodbye?’

He grimaces. ‘What do you want from me, Jaskier?’ his voice is low and pained and before Jaskier can reply _what’s that supposed to mean_ , Geralt adds, ‘didn’t you get your fill last night?’

Jaskier pushes the sheets off him. ‘What are you talking about?’

It’s an unhelpful question, Jaskier knows. Geralt’s less likely to attempt to communicate his feelings when verbally prompted, and so Jaskier must piece it together, present it like a deconstructed argument for Geralt to either confirm or deny.

‘Last night was very special to me.’

Geralt wrenches open the door. ‘You made that very clear.’

His boots are heavy against the Inn’s floorboards as he takes his bags downstairs. Quickly, he pulls on his discarded clothes, grabs the key to their room and dashes down to the foyer. The Inn is quiet, and Jaskier considers it must be earlier than he first thought. Dashing out the back door, he finds Geralt in the stables, tacking Roach.

‘Geralt, don’t leave like this,’ he implores. The path to the stables is muddy from the rain overnight and he slips a little as he approaches Roach’s stable. ‘Please. See now, I’m begging. I’m chasing after you, covered in mud and begging you to come back inside and let me buy you breakfast. Be angry with me all you want, but just don’t leave without something to eat.

Geralt ignores him and throws the saddle over Roach. 

‘This is obviously about last night,’ Jaskier continues. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, please, what I can do to fix it. Geralt, you’re my dearest friend-,’

‘Fuck off, Jaskier,’ he huffs as buckles the saddle.

‘What, you don’t believe me?’ Jaskier stretches his arms over the stable gate, penning Geralt in. It won’t stop him; Geralt can push him aside if he really wants to. ‘And what I said last night was the truth. Anything could happen to me, to you, in the next days, weeks, months. Hell, you could finally decide to make good on your promise to gut me as soon as I finish speaking, but damn it Geralt, I’ve been in love with you for years, and I don’t regret what we did and it _kills_ me that you’re doing this because I thought that in some way you felt the same.’

Geralt’s loops the headstall over Roach’s pricked ears.

‘And I know that you don’t need anything or anyone _needing you_ Geralt,’ he continues. ‘But I _want you_. For more than a night, for more than a fucking _amazing_ roll in the sheets, and for a minute there, I swear you wanted me, too.’

That makes Geralt pause. Roach paws at the ground intensely, agitated at the hesitation of her master. Jaskier stands unmoved at the gate of the stable, his heart thumping in his chest.

‘You said all that shit about _dying,_ ’ Geralt mutters eventually. ‘I thought it was some sort of last wish.’

For a moment, Jaskier can’t believe what he is hearing. ‘You thought I was trying to tick ‘sleeping with a Witcher’ off my bucket list?’

‘Others have.’

He can’t believe this, and he’s just about to tell Geralt how _stupid he is_ , how that isn’t what he meant _at all_. ‘Wait,’ he pauses. Backtracks. ‘And you went along with it?’

Geralt shrugs. ‘I wanted you.’

And really.

Was that so hard?

Jaskier steps into the stable and presses his hand against Geralt’s shoulder. ‘Don’t leave.’

Geralt’s mouth presses into a hard line. ‘I’m not good with words like you.’

‘I know,’ he says with a small smile, but Geralt’s mood doesn’t break. ‘So, I’ll make this simple for you. You can leave now and whatever this is between us will end, we’ll go our separate ways. Maybe we’ll see each other again, maybe we won’t. Or you can come back into the Inn with me and have breakfast, and then we can decide what’s next. Together.’

Geralt regards him gently and that word _together_ hangs between them, heavy and loaded. When Geralt’s hands move from where they’ve stilled on Roach, a fear blooms in Jaskier’s stomach.

But then Geralt’s hands reach for him, and Jaskier steps closer.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ Geralt whispers and Jaskier would respond _you don’t have to know, just take this small step with me_ , but then Geralt’s mouth is on his. He kisses Jaskier gently, slowly, fingers resting on the column of his throat. The feeling of his leather gloves against the softness of his throat does something to him, and Jaskier files that away for later. The kiss is all-consuming but the Witcher is timid in his arms, touching him gently. He may still flee, Jaskier considers, so he must tread gently.

‘Come inside,’ Jaskier whispers against his lips but then Geralt kisses him again, sweet and unhurried.

For a moment, Jaskier worries he’s interpreted this wrong, that this is a goodbye kiss. But then Roach shifts impatiently beside her master, and Geralt turns to her, uses one hand to unloop the headstall.

‘A while longer, girl.’

Jaskier hears chickens clucking as the Innkeeper begins collecting eggs for breakfast. He takes Geralt’s gloved hands from his throat and holds them in his.

‘Come back inside. We’ll figure it out from there,’ he says. ‘Together.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This fic is a part of a 5-part series.  
> Title inspo from Cigarettes after Sex.  
> Stay well everyone.


End file.
